


Sundays Like These

by SnowConesCentral



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-23 22:21:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/627145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowConesCentral/pseuds/SnowConesCentral
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint is on the mend from an op, and Phil discovers three things in the course of a Sunday evening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sundays Like These

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to old_chatterhand and orderlychaos for being wonderful betas!  
> This is dedicated to the CC Feelschat for being a gathering of amazing individuals.
> 
> Hello all! This would be my first stab at fic writing, so I do apologise for the occasional kink (no not that sort) here and there.  
> Enjoy!
> 
> Also, kids, please do not follow Phil Coulson's belief system on medicinal drugs. Overdosing is never the way to go, and doctor's prescriptions are there for a reason.

It's late in the evening on a slow and dreary Sunday when Phil finally emerges from his home office. His eyes are pinched and there is a steady headache building behind them that nothing but six aspirins and a couple of long minutes in a dark room can fix. He crosses the hallway of his tiny, tiny apartment and rummages about in his kitchen pantry for a couple of those heaven sent and very needed drugs. To his dismay, he finds the coffee carafe nearly empty once the pills are discovered, so he dry swallows two with a wince, leaves the rest on the counter, and refills the coffee maker for another go. All with careful, jittery movements. Sunday evenings will never stop being a pain for him. While the machine gurgles and whizzes with age and overuse, Phil closes his eyes and breathes in deep, shutting the world out with hopes that his migraine would subside. There is a faint buzz of static coming from the TV in the hall, and he goes to check on it once his bearings have steadied themselves. He finds Clint asleep on the couch, battered, bruised, and on the mend; snoring lightly and sprawled underneath a God-awful purple afghan decorated in hideous bright coloured patterns. The sudden optical assault causes him to pinch the bridge of his nose as his head throbs ruthlessly at the sight. To his credit, the only thing that saves him from experiencing a full wave of nausea is the scent of freshly brewing coffee wafting in from the kitchen, and his spirits lighten with the hope that it is almost done.

He reaches out for the remote to turn off the TV and at that same moment Clint stirs in his sleep. Phil's eyes snap instantly to his face, catalouging it for signs of pain, ready to ease it in a heartbeat, but all Clint does is let out a huff and a snort before settling back into sleep. It's a false alarm. Phil releases the breath he was holding and his eyes crinkle with amusement at the sight. He flicks off the TV to sit on the edge of the coffee table by Clint, and his hands find themselves threading through Clint's hair, checking the butterfly bandages on his forehead, and gently running down the side of his face, soft and tender. He'll never stop being in love with this man, he decides, and surprisingly enough, that's all right for him. It's almost worth the continuous ribbing by both Maria and Jasper, and on occasion, Fury when he's feeling particularly chipper. Almost, he thinks with a small smile as his hands continue to wander over Clint, checking him over, tucking the afghan back into place; surprised that it doesn't burn at the touch given its acid colours. It is then that he notices the penny-sized bruise on Clint's knee. It's purpled and slightly green, and more importantly, new. He peers closer, carefully brushing a thumb over it, and laughs; quiet and breathy when he figures out just how it came to be. Leave it to Clint master assassin and world's greatest marksman to be bested by the corner of a coffee table while recuperating. Again.

"What are you laughing at over there?"  
Phil turns to the source of the voice, eyes twinkling with mirth. He should have known Clint was feigning sleep the moment he walked in on him.  
"Oh, it's nothing," he replies with a grin. Clint's sleep rumpled face narrows into a disbelieving frown and he blurts petulantly, "You’re laughing at my bruise aren't you? The one your diabolical piece of furniture keeps giving me? I swear, Phil, that thing has it out for me."  
"It's a table, Clint. And I'd be worried if it suddenly developed a sentient personality because that would mean Stark has been in here and those are images I don't think I can handle." Clint deepens his mock frown, and Phil sees him readying for a comeback. His hand is still cupped around the back of Clint’s knee, his thumb now leaving long and gentle strokes along the side of his bruise. It’s a distraction he imagines Clint will take to, and true enough Clint’s eyes are tracking the movement; the warm lure of it. Clint’s eyes find his, and he smiles softly in return, savouring the way a plethora of emotions flicker through Clint's eyes; wonder, awe, then revels as they fall soft with enough love to rival what's in his own heart. “You’re distracting,” Clint retorts with a murmur of words. He’s trying to pass off a frown along with it, but the near permanent and dazed smile on his face won’t have any of it, so Clint relents to watching him in the quiet. They stay like that for a while, gazing at one another. All thoughts of one upping each other in banter giving way to companionable silence, and Phil thinks they've gotten horribly sappy, but he doesn't mind that too.

It is Clint who first breaks the eye contact, licking his lips and glancing back down at his bruised knee to where Phil's thumb is still doing its thing. Phil spots his toes curl in askance from where they are half buried under the blanket, and he quirks a small smile before swiping over the bruise one last time and ducking down to press a light kiss to it. His caffeine-deprived brain then chooses that exact moment to mention a quip in passing thought. _All boo-boo's deserve a Get Well-healing peck_ , it croons, and Phil, irretrievably horrified at the undignified brainfart, all but shoves it into a deep dark well for all that it is something Clint nor anyone should ever know out loud. Simply because a) the use of the word 'boo-boo' and b) the inevitable misuse of that philosophy once Clint catches wind of it.

Phil lets go of Clint and tucks the afghan back neatly, effectively breaking the moment. He sees Clint shift forward on the couch, trying to follow, but he straightens up from his crouch careful to avoid grating his back against the coffee table behind him. "It's almost seven, you'll be needing your dinner soon," he chides, and walks into the kitchen purposefully. The last thing they need is Clint exerting himself while under his care. Dr. Langdon would all but come down on him for being irresponsible, and Fury could risk popping a vein if Clint is off the field for longer than is necessary.

As he encounters the steadily beeping coffee machine, he hears Clint shout over the threshold, "Can we order takeout? Chicken porridge is starting to get to me!"  
"Not a chance, Clint. Doctor's orders. You're on porridge until she gives you the all clear."  
"I hate you all," Clint grouses in return, not unlike the mature four year old that he is, and Phil hears him sit upright to turn the TV on. He grins despite himself and moves to pour a large mug of coffee, and get dinner started. As he turns, his mug skirts over something, and he notices that they're the aspirin from where he last left them by the coffeemaker. He scoops them back into their bottle, realising that he doesn't need them that much anymore, and his face breaks out into an even wider smile. Clint has become a drug better than aspirin, and he's quite certain he's more than all right with that too.


End file.
